


Forgiven

by lezzerlee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: help_japan, Community: inception_kink, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Movie(s), Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-movie. Many people want Eames dead for a variety of reasons. Double crossing old partners, selling team mates out for a bigger sum, you name it. The Inception went extremely well, without the barest hitch. Except, well, with Fischer Morrow turning its attention away from energy, Robert's starting to wise up to some evidence that may prove that something happened on that Sydney to LA flight.<br/>Eames enemies are closing in on him and he's running out of friends to hide behind. Robert manages to find him, through some people who may also want Eames dead, and strikes a deal: Robert can keep him safe if he answers a few (inception related) questions or Eames can keep running and probably running himself into the ground.<br/>I want them both to be nasty to each other, with hate sex and a developing relationship that they claim is not love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiven

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Help Japan](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/) auction for winner [the_azure_blue](http://the_azure_blue)
> 
> Inspired by [this Prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17669.html?thread=36819717#t36819717) in [Inception Kink](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink)
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [Cathenian](http://cathenian.livejournal.com)

Mr. Kleinenberg? That name doesn’t suit you at all.”  
  
A hand drifts over the boarding pass laid on the airline counter, tracing the printed letters of his false name. Eames looks up, startled, into impossibly blue eyes resting above equally sharp cheekbones.  
  
“See, to me you look more like a Kensington, or perhaps _an Eames._ ”  
  
Eames doesn’t know what to say. For once he is completely out of his element: he’s so surprised that he can’t think, can’t fake nonchalance, can’t con his way out of this encounter.  
  
“How... how did you find me?” He says after a beat, after collecting himself enough to shut his dropped jaw.  
  
  
“That was not so difficult. What was difficult was that I had to beat Mr. Connely and Mr. Drake here.”  
  
“Bugger.”  
  
“Indeed. If you would like, we could take this conversation somewhere a bit more, _safe_ , shall we say?”  
  
Eames hesitates, trying to decide whether to wait out the delayed flight or not. He’s been hopping across Europe and this was his third flight of the day. He is exhausted; his past is catching up with him much too fast, and he’s running out of places to hide.  
  
“I suggest you come to a conclusion quickly, Mr. Eames. The only reason you are speaking to me and not currently in the trunk of a car—or worse—is because _I_ happen to have a private plane.”  
  
“Very well then, lead the way.”  
  
***  
  
 _This is utter bollocks!_ Eames thinks, firing three shots around the corner before stopping to check his clip. Two more left: he’ll have to make them count. He could really use Arthur’s help right now; the man’s aim is impeccable. Eames grimaces in frustration over fucking that up. It’s probably the worst decision of his life: severing ties with the point man. Arthur was infinitely useful. Eames can only hope that Arthur will forgive him eventually.  
  
He glances around, assessing his position. Spotting a door halfway down the alley, he jogs to it and kicks it in. Closing the door until it just barely hangs open on its broken frame, he hides behind a dumpster a meter away. He’s not stupid enough to trap himself in an unknown building, with no way of knowing the exits or how many civilians are inside. He hopes his pursuers take the bait.  
  
***  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Arthur shouts.  
  
Eames frowns but continues packing his bag. He doesn’t have time for this. He needs to make the eight to Morocco.  
  
“You fucking sold the job out? What the fuck were you thinking, Eames? Are you trying to get us _killed_?”  
  
“No, I’m not trying to get _us_ killed. That is why I told _you_ and why _I_ am leaving. I suggest you do the same.”  
  
He chances a glance at his watch before looking Arthur directly in the eyes. Arthur is furious, all lines and red cheeks. At any other time Eames might have been able to enjoy getting this much of a rise out of him, but at the moment Eames is in a hurry. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near this hotel, this city, or this country when the client comes looking for him.  
  
“We’re through, Eames,” Arthur hisses.  
  
“You say that as if we’re a couple,” Eames retorts as he zips shut the small suitcase with one brisk gesture.  
  
“Seriously, you and me, man, we’re fucking done professionally. Don’t fucking contact me. I don’t want to hear anything from you. I am not going to help and I am not going to work with you again. Do not expect any recommendations or jobs from me, you got that?”  
  
Eames sighs heavily before striding out the door without answering.  
  
***  
  
“You fucked me; now I’m going to fuck you.”  
  
Eames is pinned against the desk, hips digging uncomfortably into the edge of the wood. He could fight harder, dirtier. Eames could permanently injure him, take out his knee, rip his ligaments, and gauge his eyes. But Eames would be burning yet another bridge. He’d be ruining the only thing keeping him alive right now.  
  
He fights, because he has to, he can’t just give up; he has to see if he can get out of this, but he doesn’t go all in. Eames doesn’t throw him to the ground and kick his ribs until they’re broken and impaling internal organs. He doesn’t dislocate his elbows. He doesn’t even break the hold.  
  
This is the first time and it’s clear it won’t be the last. This is his penance. It’s obvious who has control here, and it’s not Eames.  
  
  
***  
  
Eames can hear them make their way down the alley. Shuffling footsteps that move slowly, assessing possible hiding place before continuing.  
  
“Door,” he hears one of them mutter under breath. Their pace quickens, plodding to the broken entryway. He hears the door creak and when the first ducks inside he makes his move. Darting out from behind the bin he snatches the second man around the throat with his elbow, levelling the muzzle of his gun to the man’s temple.  
  
“Don’t move,” he hisses. Eames lowers his weapon for only a moment to pull the gun out of his hostage’s hands and pat his torso down for more weapons.  
  
“You’re a fucking dead man,” the first man says, as if impatient, like Eames is wasting his time. He moves back out into the ally and Eames returns his gun’s position back to the hostage’s head. The first guy’s gun never lowers aim, even though Eames is holding his partner as a shield between them.  
  
“We’ll see about that,” Eames returns.  
  
He sees it flash through the man’s eyes a second before the guy fires, directly into his partner’s chest. That moment is the only thing that keeps Eames alive this time, that subtle narrowing of the eyelids and gleam of intent. He turns his weapon and fires before the man can squeeze off another shot.  
  
Blood is already pooling in the alley underneath the first man’s twitching frame. Eames drops his hostage unceremoniously to the ground. His mind is racing and blood runs hot through his veins.  
  
Two shots. Two center mass shots. Two men: two shots. Two bullet holes. Eames pats himself down, looking for an entry wound and finding nothing. He’s lucky the bullet didn’t go through, that his human shield was actually a shield and not just a buffer slowing the bullet down so it could do more damage to his organs.  
  
Eames only needed one bullet this time. He wipes his prints from his gun and drops it next to the body, tucking the gun he relieved from the now dead heavy into his shoulder holster.  
  
He hopes that whoever investigates this will think they shot each other. He doesn’t wait to find out. He lifts a new jacket from the back of an outdoor cafe chair, discarding his blood spattered one in a bin, and heads to the airport.  
  
***  
  
“I can’t reconcile this. I mean, everything you told me and I still hate him. I still feel... betrayed.”  
  
“And you will. Take fear of spiders for instance: many people know that most spiders they will encounter in their lives are not poisonous, will cause them no harm whatsoever, will even help them by keeping other pests away. But people still fear them. They can _know_ that the spider in front of them is harmless, and yet they will still be terrified.”  
  
Eames brushes his fingers through silky brown hair, trying to soothe the worries away, knowing he can’t. But he tries to comfort him anyway, let him know he’s here, that he’ll be here. He’ll try and mend what he’s broken; he’ll try and put everything back together again.  
  
“You’re saying just because I know it to not be true, doesn’t mean it won’t feel true.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“How do I beat this? How do I make it go away? How do I trust him again?”  
  
“You don’t; you can’t. You might never be able to, but you can try. You can train your reactions, suppress your emotions, but they’ll always be there.”  
  
Eames turns his head to plant a kiss on his forehead, pulling him closer. They lay there, wrapped in each other: now both lost in their own thoughts.  
  
***  
  
“Don’t fuck with me, Mr. Eames. I am in the position to either turn you over to your enemies, or keep you safe. It’s your choice which happens. I want to know who.”  
  
Eames gnaws on his lower lip, mulling over the lies he could tell. Who can he lay blame to? Is it worth protecting the team? Arthur has already made his position clear and Arthur can protect himself.  
  
But Ariadne is not even in the business; she’s still finishing school. Yusuf helps the lost and dream-weary; risking himself to bring others comfort. Dom has his children, children who need him. Saito has the means to make his world a living hell—protection or not.  
  
He could lay blame on Cobol, but their crossover into this business is limited. It wouldn’t seem plausible. He doesn’t have anyone that he can lay blame on without major ramifications. Consequences he’s not comfortable with. He might double cross clients for money, but he would never outright sell out a team member.  
  
“I can’t give you their names. They’re not like me. They’re decent people.”  
  
“How very noble of you. You’re self deprecating but still acting the good man? We both know you’re not. But I don’t care about your _friends_. I want to know who paid you, who hired you to ruin my life?”  
  
“He _will_ kill me.”  
  
“Not if I protect you.”  
  
“I don’t think you have that kind of power.”  
  
“Despite disassembling the company, I still have a lot of money, and a lot more contacts. I could essentially rebuild, with another focus, in quite a short amount of time. I can make things happen, in the business world and politically. Do _not_ underestimate me.”  
  
***  
  
“You. Ruined the. One good. Relationship. In my. Life.”  
  
He thrusts into Eames with force, hips snapping, sneering into Eames ear with hot, malice-tinged breath. Eames can feel the sweat slide between their bodies, slick along his back. The room is too hot.  
  
Then the angle is changing, driving in farther, harder, hitting Eames' prostate with every push forward. He’s yanked back by the hair, forcing him from up off his elbows. Eames growls; baring his teeth at the sharp pain. The pace quickens and the growl turns into an uncontrolled moan.  
  
Eames parts his mouth, panting, trying to keep control, but it’s relentless. His ass is stretched and burning with each drive in. He can feel his orgasm sitting at the base of his spine, waiting, so close. He just needs a little more: some friction, anything.  
  
Eames reaches down, taking himself into his hand, pumping up and down dryly. Before he’s able to bring himself off the thrusts stop completely. His hand is ripped away from his aching cock and he’s shoved down hard onto the mattress.  
  
“You don’t come until I tell you to.”  
  
Eames tenses, every instinct telling him to turn around and break that pretty little face. Eames wants to crush his throat in his hands. He wants to shatter fragile bones beneath his fists. Instead he takes an unsteady breath. He waits, grinding back slightly to encourage movement. A moan escapes the man as Eames clenches around him purposefully.  
  
When the thrusts begin again, they are agonizingly slow. Eames turns his face into the sheets, gripping them with white knuckles as he squeezes his eyes shut. He wills himself to stay calm. He deserves this. He deserves so much worse than this.  
  
***  
  
“I thought I told you never to contact me again.”  
  
Eames hears every consonant, crisp and clear, which means that Arthur is angry. That’s not surprising. Eames is just happy that Arthur picked up at all, that he hasn’t hung up on him yet. He could tell that Arthur had wanted to. Just one angry puff of breath after he had said Arthur’s name was indication that he was willing to stay on the line, though.  
  
“How did you even get this number?”  
  
“You are not the only one able to do research, you know? And I have my connections.”  
  
“Care to enlighten me on who I need to remind to keep their mouth shut?”  
  
“It’s not like that. Don’t worry, no one sold you out: this time.”  
  
“Get on with it. My patience is limited.”  
  
Eames sighs, gathering himself. This will not be pleasant. He’s going to receive all the blame, and if he’s lucky, Arthur will not hunt him down. He will be so very lucky if Arthur chooses not to eliminate him as a threat, as a connection to the former team.  
  
“He found me.”  
  
“Well, that’s vague. Don’t play games with me, Eames.”  
  
“He’s not coming after anyone Arthur. He’s not after Dom, Ariadne, or Yusuf. He’s not coming after you.”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“I need you to let this go, Arthur.”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“Please, Arthur. I know you would have found out eventually. I needed to tell you, so that you would let this go.” Eames tries to rush through the rest, to get everything in before Arthur interrupts him. Before Arthur has a chance to convince him that he’s wrong.  
  
“Eames, what the fuck are you talking about? This is not acceptable! This puts everyone in danger! Dom has kids for Christ’s sake!”  
  
“I know, Arthur, just please. Please trust me. I know that means nothing and you have no reason to. But I promise he’s not pursuing this any farther. He... he has what he wants, apparently. And I’m willing to do this.”  
  
“Eames, what does he have?”  
  
  
***  
Eames would be lying if he said that this didn’t feel good. Each slide burning with just the right amount of friction. Each snap of the hips forcing him forward so he has to push back into it, just to stay upright.  
  
They’ve been doing this for months: this dance, this game; Eames fighting it until the very end when he has to give in, has to submit. He’ll always lose this fight. There’s too much at stake: his life and his friends. But he doesn’t care anymore.  
  
He does it because he wants it. He wants to give in. He wants to be fucked so hard that he can’t think straight. He wants to block everything else out. Eames wants him to drill so hard into him that he forgives Eames. Because if Eames can make him forget—for even one moment—that he hates Eames, forget what Eames has done to him, then it’s all worth it.  
  
And it feels so good to make him forget. It feels so good to be forgiven, just for a moment.  
  
  
***  
  
“Do you remember the day we first met?”  
  
“Darling, _you_ don’t remember the day we first met. That day, I stole your passport and ruined your mind.”  
  
“I don’t mean that. You _know_ what I mean.”  
  
“Of course I remember. You propositioned me by offering a lovely trip on your private plane. I humbly accepted.”  
  
That earns him a snort. Eames loves when he can make those blue eyes light up. Too often there are shadows behind them. The confusion, anger, and constant struggle: it hurts seeing it there. It hurts knowing that he is part of the cause.  
  
Not that there wasn’t suffering in them before. He remembers the sadness, the longing, the barely hidden tears in their crystal blue depths. Eames remembers the tentative fear when he pushed him into the hospital room, three levels under; just hoping that it their plan would work, that they would have time.  
  
Eames wishes they had failed. He wishes they had failed a million times over so that he could take back every ounce of suffering he sees in those eyes every day.


End file.
